


A Brief Layover

by Cottontail



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cottontail/pseuds/Cottontail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of commercial air travel, layovers, jet lag, hotels, too much drinking and a morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brief Layover

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes and thank yous to all my betas at the original LJ entry for this fic.  
> [A Brief Layover](http://cottontail.livejournal.com/66834.html)

John watches from a passenger window as the city of Denver slowly grows and spreads out in a pink glow. The Boeing 757 makes a slow, practiced bank and glide towards the brightly lit airport runway below. Drops of rain slide along the outside hull, drawing snail tracks of water. Across the aisle, Lorne is turned towards his own window, watching the landing with a pilot’s eye.

Rodney’s still asleep, face smashed against John’s shoulder. It’s a testament to his own jet lagged stupor that he hasn’t shoved him off with a sharp jab yet. Not even when one of the flight attendants walks by with a sly smile and asks if they would like a blanket. After she’s passed John realizes she didn’t say blanket in plural.

The in-flight movie was Apollo 13, which John found disturbing for some reason. The few empty spaces around them are littered in magazines, headsets, a laptop and small courtesy transcontinental flight kits, including sleeping masks, ear plugs, toothbrushes, and lip balm.

Five hours of layover at JFK was an experience John never wants to go through again. It started with a mad dash to the opposite side of the airport, only to find they’d missed the connecting flight. Then the two hour wait in line, to change over from one airline to another, and Rodney’s obvious irritation with the crowds around them. Not to mention the air marshals who insisted on pulling Ronon out for “extra questioning”, due to some intimidation tactics used on a desk attendant for better seats. Luckily, John was able to flash some I.D. and make a few calls. Ronon was out of the “situation room” and back in line within an hour.

The next two hours were spent in varying and uncomfortable degrees of slouching and slumping at the departure gate. The wait was further enhanced by airport muzak, screaming babies and continuous bickering between Lorne and Zelenka. The bickering was oddly familiar to John but only entertaining for the first ten minutes.

The runway lights are less than fifty feet below. Just eighteen hours ago, they were in Glasgow, Scotland, accepting tearful goodbyes from Carson’s family. The trip has been emotionally exhausting for all. Rodney in particular hasn’t been his usual grumpy, chatty self. Instead he’s been a grumpy, silent presence beside John. It’s his silence, more than anything else, which has them all on edge.

They touchdown on the runway with a few bumps, wings making necessary adjustments as the plane slows to a gentle coast. Fellow passengers are perking up and preparing to disembark as the flight attendant runs through the “Welcome to Denver” routine.

Lorne glances up and over to John. A scruffy baseball cap sits slightly askew on his head, his clothes are wrinkled and his overall appearance is of a man worn down. The time lag from Atlantis to Earth and Colorado to Scotland is more than enough to make any sane person loopy. Beside Lorne is Ronon who’s been jiggling his knee in suppressed energy for the past three hours. Zelenka, in the seat before Ronon’s, has on more than one occasion turned an irritated glare back on him.

John pushes Rodney off his shoulder and shakes him none too gently. “Hey, wake up, buddy.”

Rodney rubs his eyes. He has a two-day growth of beard and his hair is a scruffy wreck. John imagines he doesn’t look much better himself. They share a long moment of blinking stupidly at one another.

“You missed Apollo 13,” John says, just to break the weird silence.

“What?” Rodney looks confused, glancing from John to the window then the place where the movie screen was. “Sheppard, it’s the same movie they played for the flight out to Scotland.”

John shrugs. “I know. I’m just saying… you missed it.”

“You know, it’s no wonder your marriage didn’t work out. You’re really fucking bizarre sometimes.”

That actually stings a little, because Rodney has no idea how close to the truth it is. But John lets it go.

As the seat belt light blips off Ronon abruptly stands and slams his head into an overhead cabin. He curses loudly, in what John can only assume is Satedan, and turns a glower on John. His voice is all threat and frustration when he speaks. “I don’t care whose dead next time, if I ever agree to come back here, shoot me!”

Some fellow first class passengers nervously lean away. Zelenka snorts, pushes his glasses up on his nose and mumbles in Czech.

\--  
“Where the hell are we now?” Rodney grumbles as Ronon gathers up luggage from the slow turning baggage carousel. They don’t have much: a few packs and Rodney’s laptop, which he carried on board.

“Denver,” John answers, examining a brochure of the airport layout, trying to determine the best escape route.

“Great. And why are we not in Colorado Springs?”

“Plane landed in Denver,” Ronon provides unhelpfully.

Rodney gives him the patented narrow eyed look of irritation.

They head for the airport tram, because as far as John can tell the exit is in the opposite direction from baggage claim. Lorne has to go after Zelenka when he absently wanders off towards a Giant Pretzel stand. John diverts Rodney’s attention because he can just see it turning into a feeding frenzy once he, then Ronon, realize there’s food available.

“So? Get lots of sleep?” he asks.

“What?”

“Sleep?”

Rodney glares. “Well, I missed Apollo 13, didn’t I?”

Rodney is not in a good mood.

The dim florescent lights in the concourse make John’s eyes water and he puts his aviator shades on as they step into the tram.

A particularly loud musical alarm startles a yelp from Zelenka and an automated voice announces, “The Doors Are Closing. Please Hold On”. Rodney scowls at the voice then glares at the doors. He looks unusually frail, like any sudden movement might knock him over. John wants to reach out and anchor him. But Rodney would certainly shake off any such attempt.

They speed towards the next concourse; blotches of yellow and blue light fly past the windows while a low howl of wind fills the tram compartment. They all stand and stare at one another in time-lagged-foggy dazes. Ronon holds onto nothing at all and balances in the center of the car, as if surfing with baggage hanging off him. John’s impressed.

The train comes to a gentle stop at concourse C. “The Doors Are Opening” the voice announces again. Out in concourse C the halls are wide open and echoing with just a few other late night travelers milling about. John leads them towards the escalator, feeling the whole time as if he’s under some light anesthetic.

Nothing is going to seem real until they’re back on the Daedalus. It’s always like this when he comes back to Earth. The culture shock is so harsh and abrupt from Pegasus to Earth.

\---

While Lorne does some reconnaissance at the various rent-a-car booths, John waits with the others in the middle of the concourse. They watch people come and go, all with luggage in tow. It’s late, public traffic isn’t too heavy, which John is thankful for.

A nearby group of girls are making eyes at Ronon and he’s making eyes back until they giggle. At their feet are bags and suitcases, as though they’re going on a class trip of some sort. A tall guy with shaved head, and pants, which look like they might fall off his ass any second, inserts himself in Ronon’s space.

“You lookin’ at something, man?”

Ronon gets that unwavering, intense, amused look, and fixes it on the guy. The tip of his tongue makes a short appearance and he enunciates each of his words very clearly. “Yeah, your ugly face.”

John watches, mesmerized and too zoned out from travel to do much more than grin in anticipation of a good fight. Actually, a really fast fight because Ronon will crush this kid in less than a second.

“Oh for-“ Rodney breaks in, the threat of impending violence enough to momentarily bring him out of his gloom. “Hey, Earth to Big Guy.” He waves his hands in Ronon’s face, which seems kind of dangerous to John. “No fighting here! Remember that rule?”

He insinuates himself between Ronon and the punk kid. It’s a brave move.

“I don’t feel like sitting under florescent lights for the next two hours at the local police station while Sheppard bails your ass out of jail.” He glares at Ronon then shoves at the kid. “Go on. Go herd your harem or whatever. By the way, do you know how unsanitary it is to pierce your tongue like that? The bacteria alone… and pull your damned pants up, you freak!”

Rodney sucks at dispute resolution. John finds himself in between the punk kid and Rodney before any serious damage can be done to his physicist. This is how John ends up with a bruised cheekbone and in need of some new shades.

After a long discussion with airport security, John, Rodney and Ronon head for the exit.

Lorne has used this time to acquire one of those Jeep SUV’s. It’s black and smells brand new. Ronon claims the front passenger seat and no one is willing to argue with him for it. Mostly because they’re all too tired to bother but also because Ronon is bigger and can beat them all up.

Somehow John ends up in the middle of the backseat. Just between Rodney and Zelenka. He tries valiantly to figure out the seatbelt situation but gives up when it becomes clear Rodney won’t budge to allow him access to his own side of the belt. Smashing himself into a vaguely comfortable position, John prays Lorne’s a safe driver.

Lorne starts up the engine and slowly takes them through the maze of the parking garage then out onto the nighttime streets.

As they pick up speed on the highway, Rodney and Zelenka begin to argue. All in English on Rodney’s side and Czech on Zelenka’s. Both yell across John as if he isn’t pressed between them at all. After a particularly rude gesture from Rodney, Zelenka looks directly at John then gives Rodney a loaded stare. Rodney glares menacingly at Zelenka. “Don’t say a word,” Rodney snarls back between clenched teeth. John tries to blend in with the leather interior, praying they don’t drag him into whatever it is. He then attempts to tune it out and focus on the passing headlights and occasional bump in the road

Lorne is scanning through channels on the satellite radio as they coast down the highway. He lands on Sinatra and ups the volume a few extra decibels, probably hoping to drown out Zelenka and McKay.

“I’m just saying – “ Zelenka yells over the music.

“Well just don’t say anymore, okay?” Rodney bites back.

“Hey!” Lorne yells. “We really don’t need any more fighting tonight.”

John slouches lower in the seat.

“We’re all tired and hungry, let’s just get to the hotel and find some food,” Lorne continues.

“I might not be tired if someone hadn’t been overexcited in his seat whole trip,” Zelenka grumbles.

“What was that?” Ronon asks with an underlying menace. Lorne has the music so loud John can feel the big band sounds vibrating the entire vehicle.

“You are worse than my hyper nephews with all your bouncing around and kicking my seat for 18 hours-“

“How about I come back there and bounce you around?” Ronon snarls.

At this point John has to be a good leader and step in, bloodshed seems eminent otherwise. He sits up a little straighter and glares. “How about all of you shut the hell up and let Major Lorne get us to the hotel? Then we can all go to our respective rooms for some alone time.”

It’s damned difficult to be authoritative with Frank Sinatra providing the soundtrack.

His words are met with silence, punctuated only by an aggravated sigh from Rodney and some mumbled Czech from Zelenka. It’s possible Ronon and Lorne didn’t even hear him from their seats up front.

The song ends and the silence is acute.

“Your world sucks,” Ronon announces. No objections are made.

Lorne changes the station to some Samba music.

John’s cheek starts to throb.

\---

“Two singles or one suite,” Lorne explains as John scowls down at the registration desk.

“I thought we had reservations.” He nibbles his lower lip and glances up at the concierge who is unwavering in his room availability no matter how often John uses the word “reservations.”

“We had a convention come into town, sir. There was no confirmation on your reservation so we gave your rooms up. However, the suite is quite large and we can give you a discount.”

“We don’t care about discounts!” Rodney bursts in. He’s been vehement since the argument with Zelenka back in the Jeep. “We could buy out this hotel! Do you know how important we are? No, of course not, or you would have held our rooms. That’s why we had a _reservation_ on them, so you would _hold_ them for us!”

“McKay.” Ronon places a hand on Rodney’s shoulder and pulls him back from the concierge’s personal space.

“We’ll take the suite,” John says with a tired smile. Lorne pulls out a credit card and a military ID, at which the guy does a double-take, then gives them an even larger discount on the room.

\---

Zelenka and Lorne vote for dinner out, or at least down in the hotel restaurant. John and Rodney vote for room service and Ronon just shrugs and flips through channels on the giant television.

“Ah ha!” Rodney announces, holding up mini bottles of hard liquor from an impressively stocked bar.

“You don’t drink, Rodney,” Radek absently comments, riffling through local dining brochures.

“Tonight I do.” Rodney opens what might be Vodka and pours it down his throat. They all watch in equal parts fascination and horror as he gags but holds it down. John figures right now Rodney’s probably in the “anger” phase.

He joins Rodney at the mini-bar, scoping out a tray of tiny ice cubes, cracking them onto the counter and holding one against his bruised cheek. It’s a chilling burn at first, then blessedly numb as ice melts down his arm. Rodney offers him a Jack Daniels.

“There’s a pizza place across the street,” Zelenka says.

“We had pizza the first night,” Rodney grumbles.

Lorne appears at John’s side with a plastic bag from God knows where. He slides the rest of the cubes into the bag, ties it off expertly, removes the empty Jack Daniel’s miniature from John’s hand and replaces it with the bag.

Rodney finds a menu under the ice bucket and holds it up in triumph. “Room service!”

They order everything, which really pisses off the kitchen staff.

\--

John shouldn’t be so comfortable here, smashed into a double-wide recliner with Rodney. The others are similarly spread out in various displays of satiated exhaustion. Zelenka is already dozing on one of the couches.

“Here, eat this,” Rodney says, shoving something into John’s mouth. They’ve managed to clean out the mini-bar. But Rodney is definitely not a drinker and it’s hit him hardest.

John swallows down something chocolate-like. “Sir, you know he chewed that himself first, right?” Lorne smirks from his sprawl on the second couch, across the room.

John feels momentarily disgusted then rationalizes that it’s not like he hasn’t shared food and water with McKay before. He washes it down with a last gulp of Scotch.

“McKay’s sloshed,” Ronon observes.

“Kind of like him this way,” John gives a fond smile as he glances down at the lolling head of Rodney, face flushed and eyes fixed on the television. Nova - Anatomy of a Bomb.

“You do?” Lorne asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, more manageable this way.”

Suddenly Rodney lifts his head. “I might puke.”

They make it to the giant bathroom together, with only a minimal amount of drunken stumbling and a lot of smart-assed jibes from Ronon and Lorne.

“Wow, the floor is so green! And the acoustics are great in here,” Rodney observes with unusual enthusiasm for a man getting ready to puke.

John takes advantage of the wide open space and stretches on the floor, throbbing cheek pressed to cool tiles.

Time is relative when you’re drunk. “Are you going to throw up now?” John asks after what feels about twenty minutes. Not that he’s particularly uncomfortable lying on the bathroom floor and he’s certainly been in worse places with Rodney, but something to show for it would be cool.

Rodney stares at the open toilet. “No. I want to but I can’t.” He looks dejected and alone. “Story of my life.”

“Just think of something really disgusting,” John offers helpfully.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… Once, when I was a kid, my dog rolled in a dead squirrel carcass then climbed into bed with me.”

Rodney stares at him with a promising look of repulsion but he only swallows hard a few times before saying, “Do you ever have any _nice_ childhood memories?”

“I have some.” He tries to think of one but of course nothing pops into his head. He closes his eyes, listening to the plumbing under the floor as someone flushes in another room. The shower-head drips every seven seconds and the sound echoes off the tiles. The room smells like disinfectant and hotel soap.

Rodney sighs. “I really messed up. I can’t stop thinking how he just wanted to go fishing. Why didn’t I go?”

“You wanted to score with Katie Brown?”

There’s a groan from Rodney’s direction. “No. That was an excuse.”

This has been eating at Rodney the whole trip. And it isn’t like the same thing hasn’t occurred to John. After all, Carson invited him along for fishing as well. But he knows how futile the game is. It’s no one’s fault. It was Carson’s own choice to stay behind and operate on that guy. “Rodney-“

“I know. It’s not my fault. But… it _feels_ like my fault.”

“It’s not.” This statement might have come off more serious if John hadn’t hiccupped at the end of it.

Rodney doesn’t notice. “And I was a jerk to him. You know? But he was like a real friend and –“

“Rodney, stop,” John interrupts, lifting his head then laying it back down again as the room spins and the overhead light makes him nauseous. “You can’t go back. Trust me, I know.”

There’s another heavy sigh from Rodney. John tentatively opens one eye. Rodney has his back against the porcelain of the bathtub, knees drawn up and head bowed.

The bathroom atmosphere has gone from drunken apathy to gloomy depression in less than a millisecond. “I’m like a real friend too,” John slurs, because it seems like the right thing for this moment.

“You’re like a little more,” Rodney answers quietly. So quietly John has to wonder if he heard it at all.

Another twenty minutes pass in the bathroom. No one regurgitates any damned thing. It’s all so anti-climatic.

They splash water on their faces and make stumbling progress towards the larger of the bedrooms. “Good night, sir.” Lorne’s amused voice drifts over. John is certain this story will be sold to Marines back on Atlantis, but he’s too intoxicated to attempt damage control right now.

Somehow they make it to the bed and John all but tumbles on top of Rodney before pulling himself back up to a sitting position.

“So many pillows,” Rodney observes.

John helps dispose of pillows by tossing them off the bed. A lamp teeters then falls from one of the side tables. They both freeze as it shatters on the floor in a deafening crash and the room is immersed in darkness. Street lights from a window illuminate the shadows. Rodney sits up to see the damage.

“Crap,” John mutters.

The muffled voices from the outer room stop talking suddenly. John glares at the closed door.

“Huh.” Rodney says, like that’s all he has for the entire shattered lamp issue. But then he’s suddenly grabbing for another pillow and aiming for the lamp on the other side-table. John makes a desperate lunge for Rodney’s arm before he can hit it.

He manages to pin Rodney down and wrestle the pillow away. Though it’s an intense struggle and Rodney’s determined. “Sheppard! Let go!”

“Stop destroying the furniture.” John tries to sound calm, but the battle has actually taken the breath out of him. Rodney’s incredibly strong when he wants to be.

Rodney is obviously furious under him. Just generally pissed at the world and John distinctly remembers that feeling. The loss of Dex and Mitch in Kabul had been particularly difficult to get through. Then Holland’s death had about sent him over the edge. He’d gone on a few rampages of his own after each one.

Just as suddenly as it started the struggle stops and Rodney goes limp, chest heaving under John’s.

“Can I let you go now?” John asks in a quiet voice.

There’s no answer, but he seems more composed so John risks it and lets go.

He’s considering the pros and cons of attempting to clean up the lamp when warm fingers fist in his shirtfront and his attention is forced back to an angry and intoxicated Rodney. They’re in an awkwardly intimate position for two guys; John leaning over and Rodney half sitting. He’s aware only of blue, blue eyes, dark lashes and the warmth emanating from Rodney’s skin.

For an instant Rodney appears perfectly sober. John has a momentary sensation of free falling. Later, he tries to recall who started it, but it’s as if they act on mutual agreement. They’re just suddenly kissing. John swallows, a small sound at the back of his throat, and the kiss escalates to warm, drunken and sloppy.

One of them insists on removing clothing and it seems like a good idea. Until it turns into a difficult, fumbling task, and frustrates the hell out of John.

“You’re really not helping me here,” Rodney snarls.

“Well, stop wiggling around so damn much!” John snarls back.

They agree to remove their own clothing, which is so much easier.

Once the last sock is tossed across the room, another struggle ensues. This time over who gets to be on top. At which point John starts questioning what the hell he’s doing here. He’s not a stranger to drunk sex, but it’s usually with some random woman who’s attached herself to him at a bar or party. Someone he knows he will never have to face again afterwards. This is Rodney and can’t be anything but wrong.

“Come on! I’m way more dom than you,” Rodney persists, managing to pin John down and bring his attention back to the moment.

“Did you just say dom?”

“Isn’t that what it’s called?”

“How the hell would I know?”

He can feel the rapid beat of Rodney’s heart; the hard strength of his erection pressed against his thigh. This is happening and there’s no way to turn it back now.

“Are you really going to let me do this?” Rodney whispers, obviously on the same track of thought.

John lets out a great frustrated huff. “For fuck’s sake, McKay! I’m drunk, naked, hard and pinned under you. I think this is the green light.”

“Right, right…” any further words are muffled against his throat as Rodney licks and kisses. He's all muscle and strength against John, thrusting once at just the right angle to drag a strangled moan from John. It’s all so carnal and suggestive of other sensations to come. Too much time has passed since he’s allowed another person to actually touch him, much less had sex. John gives up on the power struggle and melts under Rodney; pliant and very willing.

Neither of them lasts too long, and it’s certainly not the best sex John has ever had, but it’s 2:00 in the morning and they’re drunk, tired and emotionally wrecked.

He’s absolutely going to regret this in the morning.

While Rodney snores softly against John’s ear, he prays fervently he’ll black this out, but he didn’t consume enough hard liquor for that to be feasible. Then he fervently prays he won’t forget. Because damn, why didn’t he realize before there was a thing between them? The entirety of Atlantis probably has a betting pool open on it.

His skin feels warm and clammy, it’s way too hot in one bed with two bodies contributing so much heat. Nausea rolls over him as he stares up at the ceiling fan.

This just sucks.

In a haze of queasiness and cold-sweat he stumbles from the darkened room and trips over the sheet he’s managed to pull along with him. Some idiot decided to place a piece of furniture against the wall where the door should be and John stubs his toe on it. He mutters a sharp curse and finds the door.

The light in the bathroom is way too bright. He pukes most of his evening meal into the waiting toilet.

The floor is blessedly close and once again the cool tiles are excellent for pressing a sore and throbbing cheek against. While he lies there, contemplating his roiling stomach, a tiny corner of his brain conjures Carson’s name up. If Carson were here he would have some mediciney smelling salve for John’s cheek. For the impending hang-over he would probably encourage taking a few aspirin and a tall glass of water before bed. Maybe he would have some hang-over remedy in the morning, like orange juice with honey and a multi-vitamin.

John floats, sleep within reach until a squeaking noise forces his eyes open again. A pair of new, black Nike shoes appear. Lorne’s.

“Need some help, sir?”

Crap.

This has to be number one in the book of “Things a Good Leader Doesn’t Allow Subordinates to Witness.”

“What’s going on – Oh.” Zelenka’s voice. John wishes he could just sink into the floor.

Between the two of them, they get him back to the bedroom, blatantly not mentioning the fact that a stark-naked McKay is in the same bed. It just shows what a class act Lorne is and John doesn’t know why people don’t recognize that more often. Who knows when Lorne could end up dead on some mission or choking on a chicken bone or whatever.

“Lorne?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I like you a lot.”

Silence.

“Okay, sir. I like you too. You get some sleep.”

\---

John wakes up only because he’s dehydrated and his head is pounding so hard he can’t sleep any longer. For some time he watches the ceiling fan as it turns in lazy circles. It’s not completely light out yet but it’s getting close.

He’s abruptly reminded another person is in the bed when Rodney snuffles a bit and shifts.

Shit. John stares up at the fan, willing Rodney to remain asleep. He can’t bear the thought of facing ‘the morning after thing’ now. The only comfort being that Rodney is likely to be in the same hung-over state, if not worse.

Soft snoring continues and John lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Rodney looks very young when he’s sleeping; hair sticking up at odd angles and lashes dark against pale cheeks. Without thought John reaches one finger out and runs it over the soft tuft of hair at Rodney’s temple. He gives no response to the touch. John envies him, completely unaware of the sickness waiting for him in the waking world.

He forces his gaze back to the ceiling fan and tries to give himself a pep talk. _Okay, you’re in bed with McKay but it’s not so terrible… and you’re not hung-over. You just need a lot of water and coffee._ This used to work when he was younger. He could just deny it was happening and after coffee and a couple aspirin he would be almost fine and head out for a run. Usually, by time he returned, whoever he’d slept with the night before would be gone.

But he isn’t twenty-something any longer and the tactic only works long enough to get him to the bathroom. First priority is brushing teeth, then a shower and shave. The bruise on his cheek is an impressive reddish-blue and still tender.

Making his way back to the bedroom, with a towel wrapped around his hips, he narrowly avoids the broken remains of the lamp on the floor. The room looks like a clothing-grenade went off. Somehow he manages to gather up all that is his and even leaves a tidy pile of Rodney’s on a chair by the door. He can’t seem to scope out one of his socks and considers taking Rodney’s. But the thought of Rodney bitching about it later deters him.

Feeling pathetic and sorry for himself John heads for the main room, with one sock on and braced for whoever else might be awake this early.

It’s Lorne, sprawled in the chair John and Rodney shared last night, one leg thrown over the arm, and tapping away at some handheld device. Lorne’s face spreads into a knowing grin when John takes a few tentative steps into the room. He has to stop and will himself not to puke again.

Lorne studies him. “You okay, sir?”

“No.”

He eyes John a bit more then nods and abruptly stands, stuffing the little phone, or whatever it is, into a pocket. “Let’s go eat.”

The thought of food makes John’s stomach threaten to come up. “How about you just shoot me?”

Lorne has a good humored smile. “Now you’re just acting like Ronon.” A strong hand wraps around John’s arm and he’s pulled towards the door. “Come on. Let’s go before anyone else wakes up.”

This is all the incentive John needs right now and he allows himself to be pulled out of the room, into the elevators and down to the hotel restaurant.

A tall glass of water and half a cup of coffee later, John looks around at the other patrons. They all appear to be far better adjusted to life than he is at this moment.

The waitress is a small thing with alabaster skin, red curls, a curvy little body and glossy lips. She eyes both of them with a shy smile. Lorne has a reputation for flirting with anything that bats lashes at him, but he only smiles tightly at her and orders bacon, eggs and more bacon.

“I’ll have toast.” John hands the unopened menu back to her.

John Denver bleats from the speakers hidden around the room.

Cream swirls in interesting patterns as Lorne pours it into his coffee. “I don’t know about you, but this trip is going down as one of my worst.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. His head starts to throb again. “Kinda sucks that it’s Ronon’s first introduction to this plan- this country.”

Lorne nods, studying John again. “Look,” John says, because the odd tension hanging over the table is not helping his hang-over. “Obviously last night was a really bad example of leadership and-“

Lorne chokes on his coffee. “Sir, do you think I still need leadership examples? Trust me, I’ve done worse.”

“Well… that’s… good to know. I guess.” John doesn’t want to know what ‘worse’ could be. He wants to keep Lorne in a nice clean corner of his mind, with no bad marks to tarnish him.

Minutes later the waitress appears with food and refills on coffee.

Lorne tucks into his eggs and bacon, John picks apart his toast. “If I had gone fishing with Beckett,” he begins to say, but doesn’t know how to finish or why he started.

“You think if Dr. Beckett hadn’t gotten himself blown up you wouldn’t have gotten smashed and slept with McKay?”

It’s a brazen statement John didn’t expect from Lorne and it inexplicably sets him on edge. He shrugs and rubs tiredly at his eyes, unwilling to admit how wrong that is.

Lorne appears thoughtful, munching on his bacon. “So, that’s it? It was just an alcoholic binge and nothing else?”

John takes a moment to really look at his trusted second. This isn’t typical conversation for two officers of the US military. But he and Lorne have been through a lot on Atlantis, where all rules are out the window. Lorne has a talent for catching people off guard and ambushing them. It’s something John admires in him. Though now that it’s turned on him he’s not so sure he likes it after all. “What do you really want to say, Major?”

Lorne watches the waitress seat a group of businessmen before his gaze returns to John. “All due respect, sir,” he continues, in a quiet voice. “I’m just saying it seems more like you’re using Dr. Beckett as the catalyst.”

The waitress appears with refills on coffee.

“It’s going to be a nice one out today. Lots of sun,” she says. “You fellas heading out for some recreation?” She takes the ticket out of her apron, scribbles on it then places it on the edge of the table. John stares at her, fascinated by how oblivious the population of his entire home planet is to the enormity of the universe.

“We’re just going on a little trip with some friends,” Lorne answers, taking out a gold card and reaching for the ticket. John would feel guilty for letting Lorne charge everything on that gold card but the government repays it all. Besides, Lorne gets the extra frequent flyer miles, which seems ironic.

After Lorne calculates the tip, which must be big considering the blushing and wide smile the waitress gives him, they head back up to the suite.

In the elevator John has to stop them mid-floor. “Something wrong?” Lorne looks concerned.

“Just, planning my method of attack,” John lies.

“Attack?” Lorne says thoughtfully. “Sir, we really need to hit the road soon, there’s a briefing back at the SGC at noon.”

“There is?”

Lorne raises a brow in affirmation.

With a deep breath John pushes the correct floor number and they’re heading up again.

“Don’t worry about it, sir. I’m sure McKay is at least twice as hung-over.”

This alleviates a bit of John’s unease.

\---

It’s not so bad actually. Rodney is slumped over on the couch; Ronon and Radek are packing up to leave.

Lorne makes a last call down to the front desk and asks them to bring the Jeep around.

Rodney opens one eye, takes in John’s presence and closes it again. He looks freshly showered and shaved, but also pale and generally about as bad as John feels.

“You should drink water,” John suggests, because he can’t think of what else to say.

“You had coffee. You went down there; you had coffee and didn’t bring me any back.”

Normally John doesn’t take this kind of comment from Rodney too seriously. The guy is one big walking complaint department. But this morning it stirs some guilt up in him. He should have brought coffee up.

“We’ll get some on the way down to checkout.”

He receives a grunting noise in response.

John rubs a hand over the back of his neck and stares down at the flowered carpeting. “Listen, I uh –“

“Oh God, can we save your really uncomfortable John Sheppard non-verbal communication thing until my brains are no longer trying to implode in my skull?”

John blinks. “Yeah, sure. That’s cool.” He needs to find his own bags and make sure everything is packed up. But then remembers something, “Uh… did you happen to find an extra sock?”

One eye squints open again. “What?”

Heat fills his face and yes it’s awkward and no way around any of it. “My sock? I only found one.”

Rodney stares blankly at him, looks vaguely amused but then closes his eye again. “No.”

John nibbles at his lip, shifts from one foot to another and finally turns away, intent on finding anyplace else to be.

\---

He needs new sunglasses; morning sun is blatantly beginning to shine and ruin the day.

This time Zelenka calls shotgun and Ronon decides to crawl into the very tiny backseat area, rather than sit between John and Rodney. Possibly he’s afraid of any sudden need to vomit one of them might exhibit. He manages to scrunch up back there just fine, which John finds mildly amusing.

“Just going to top her off before we head out,” Lorne announces, pulling into a gas station. He and Zelenka have a small debate regarding regular or super unleaded. John tries to remain still and not think much. His stomach is threatening to stage a coup once more.

“Never again,” Rodney mumbles from under Zelenka’s coat, which is haphazardly tossed over his head. A Styrofoam coffee cup sits precariously on the seat between them.

“What?”

“Alcohol.”

A small Ronon-like snort of amusement sounds from behind them.

The smell of gasoline is nauseating.

Lorne returns and something hits John in the head. “Who’s your favorite XO, sir?”

John manages a grateful smile for him as he puts the newly purchased, cheap shades on. They still have the price sticker stuck in the corner of one lens but he can’t bring himself to care. “Someone needs to promote you, Major.”

“How come you don’t do nice things like that for me, Radek?” Rodney grouses.

“I gave you my coat and I have made no comment about your drunken fun time with the Colonel last night.”

John suddenly wishes he also had a coat to hide his humiliation under.

He sleeps most of the way to Colorado Springs. Lorne has to pull over once for him to puke his guts out on the side of the road while semi-trucks fly past. Rodney and Ronon sleep through it but Zelenka looks a little concerned when John crawls back into the Jeep.

He hands John a fresh bottled water. “Strange McKay hasn’t upchucked yet,” he observes. John doesn’t think it’s strange, he thinks it’s a cruel and sardonic twist. Rodney is obviously unwell yet he’s not nearly as bad off as John would expect from a man who rarely drinks. John wonders if he’s even sleeping under Zelenka’s coat, or just faking it to avoid reality.

“ETA Cheyenne Mountain, fifteen minutes,” Lorne announces, as tires spin off gravel and they head back onto the highway.

\---

The briefing was simply General Landry and random IOA higher-ups going over supply requests from Atlantis, and drilling John on the feasibility of a more international military presence on Atlantis. Which he really doesn’t have a problem with, as long as they all speak some English and can shoot a target.

Not a single person comments on either of their bedraggled, morning after appearances. Although Landry does give John the once over from under furrowed brows. Probably Cameron Mitchell never comes in here hung-over and wrinkled with one sock on.

Rodney sits quietly on the opposite side of the briefing room table, tapping on his laptop and occasionally throwing in snippy comments.

John tries to catch his eye on a few occasions but Rodney avoids it on every attempt. After a while John gets pissed. When the briefing ends he deliberately blocks Rodney’s exit from the doorway. “I want to have a burger at that new place Mitchell told us about.”

Rodney blinks and gives John a stubborn look. “So go.”

There are still a few people in the room, glancing their way, so John pulls Rodney out into the hall, all but dragging him towards the elevators. “I want you with me.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not hungry. In fact I might just vomit at the smell of food.”

“Whatever.”

He has the keys to the Jeep and they’re flying down the highway before Rodney can come up with any further excuses.

The sky is growing pink and orange as the evening sun sets under clouds. They have one night and a day left before everyone loads onto the Daedalus for home and John has no intention of spending it under military eyes in Cheyenne Mountain.

Rodney’s focused on the passing scenery.

John searches for something to say. “We’ll get a room at the Broadmoor, I’ve always wanted to stay there.”

“What?” Rodney finally looks at him.

“The hotel? I’m not sleeping at Cheyenne our last night.”

“Oh, I just… uh,” Rodney falters, then returns to the passing scenery. “Fine. Okay.”

They pull into the burger place, gravel crunching under wheels, and John takes the key from the ignition. The engine ticks quietly as dust settles around the Jeep. Rodney’s stillness is starting to unnerve him. With one tentative finger he reaches across the small space between them and traces the soft tuft of hair at Rodney’s temple. He reacts, fixing John with a mild look of surprise.

John withdraws quickly. “Sorry.”

Rodney continues to stare. “Are you hitting on me again?”

John knows his mouth is hanging open and he shuts it immediately. “What?”

“Oh, please. Like you didn’t just toss yourself at me last night?”

“We were drunk!”

Rodney manages to mix his superior-chin-jutting move with a look of nervous self-doubt which makes something in John ping with need. “Fine. Let’s forget it,” Rodney says.

Normally, John would love to forget it and not do this talking about it crap. But if it means Rodney’s going to continue with the cold shoulder routine then he would rather not just drop it. The whole thing is obviously eating at both of them. “We can’t just forget it, Rodney. You’re acting like something’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong. I lost my friend in a violent death that could have been avoided.”

John glares, frustrated that he’s brought Carson’s death back into this. “I’m aware of that.”

Rodney gives no answer, just glares back until John’s silence melts him from stubborn to defeated and lost. “What? What do you want to hear?” He flails a hand in the air and John suddenly wants nothing more than to reassure him that everything will be all right.

“Nothing. I’m sorry. Let’s go inside.”

They have dinner in relative quiet. Rodney nibbles on fries, slowly regains his appetite and gets down a large burger and coke. They discuss the briefing and what Elizabeth’s reaction will be to some of the IOA suggestions.

On the drive to the hotel John has a strange attack of nerves and he makes an unplanned stop at the Dairy Queen, just to play for time. The evening air is sweet and smells of spring, with none of the salty tang so common on Atlantis. He has a fudge sundae with sprinkles and Rodney has the Oreo Blizzard. They lean against the front fender of the Jeep, engrossed in ice cream. Small children whiz around the parking lot on bikes.

John doesn’t know what he’s doing. They’re alone, heading for a hotel and the simplest things are making him doubt himself. Every time he’d previously been this kind of nervous runs through his mind. The first time he asked a girl on a date, back in 7th grade. Those uncertain minutes of self doubt, just before his first solo-hover in a Huey back in flight training. Proposing marriage to Alison; which oddly he was only nervous about because he knew what a stupid thing it was to do in the first place. Then there was the decision to go to another galaxy and standing in front of the Stargate at the SGC the first time.

Rodney’s into his ice cream, oblivious to John’s fretful state.

“Carson had a large family,” Rodney says, licking his spoon in a way that has John shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah, his parents were certainly…”

“Fertile?”

John shrugs and tries to concentrate on his own ice cream, which is melting into a coagulated mush of fudge. “I was going to use another word.”

“Hmm.” Rodney smirks at him and John can’t help returning a smile.

Now, when they’re comfortable together again and Rodney is giving him that familiar grin, John realizes something. Something that makes his throat close up and the rushing thump of his heart beat wildly in his eardrums. It wasn’t drunken sex at all. All the teasing and bickering over the years, the way they read one another perfectly and work in synch on missions, the odd looks from Ronon and Teyla. All of it melts into an obvious truth. One he can’t believe he never saw before.

Lorne was right. Beckett’s death was the catalyst.

Rodney, apparently sensing something has changed, stops smirking. “What? Are you going to puke again? Because there’s a trash can right over there.”

John swallows. He does feel like his stomach is trying to flip over, actually.

“Are you going to finish that?” Rodney asks. John willingly hands over the rest of his ice cream. “Hey, maybe I better drive.” John hands over the keys, too.

While Rodney drives, John has a small conflicted argument with himself. On the one hand, he wants to tell Rodney this new thing he’s just realized. Wants to know if Rodney was aware of it already or has been just as blind. On the other hand he wants to run as far away from this as possible. No good ever comes from relationships with John Sheppard. He has all this weird baggage and emotional unavailability and let’s face it, Rodney’s not that great with interpersonal crap either. The whole thing is just waiting to blow up in their faces. Besides that, John’s never really been with another guy. And why isn’t that the first thing he’s freaking out over?

This leads him down a whole other path of debate and it’s a good thing Rodney drives fast, because they arrive at the hotel pretty quick.

While Rodney explains to the valet about how to handle the Jeep, John signs them into a suite.

It’s a nice layout and far more lavish than he expected. John finds a light switch and flips it on.

“Wow,” Rodney says as the door clicks shut behind them. “This is... big. Hey, we could order some movies and-“ John cuts him off, immediately shoving Rodney back against the door, pressing a knee between his legs and silencing his words in a demanding kiss. Rodney makes an undignified squeaking noise of surprise. But once he realizes what’s happening he willingly opens up, licking and sucking in an incredibly sloppy kiss that has John breathless within a minute.

He pulls back and Rodney’s eyes are huge, breathing heavy. “Or, we could not watch movies,” he says.

John nods a bit. “Yeah, I’d rather do this.” He alternately shoves and pulls Rodney towards the giant bed, trying very hard not to think too much about this.

“Umm, shouldn’t we talk or something?” Rodney sounds nervous, but John’s on autopilot. There’s something he has to know. Maybe just prove to himself he can do this again without the alcohol. Can do it purely because he’s actually attracted to Rodney on some level he hadn’t realized until this evening.

“You know I suck at talking, Rodney.” He urges Rodney back onto the bed and starts working at the clothing.

“But, I… Umm, yeah, okay. No talking,” Rodney stutters, eyes growing round as John gets his own shirt off and pulls on Rodney’s next. It’s kind of a pain in the ass to undress Rodney, despite his fumbling efforts to assist. John remembers this from last night too.

“Ouch! You’re pulling my hair!” John yanks the shirt off over Rodney’s head and tries to look contrite for being rough like that.

“Sorry.”

“I realize I don’t have a lot of it, but I’d like to keep what I do have.” Rodney attempts to smooth his hair down.

“Rodney! Come on, get with the program here.” This receives a huff of frustration in response.

“Perhaps you could enlighten me on the program, Colonel?”

John scowls. “Is it possible for you to use my first name?”

Rodney stares up at him, expression unreadable. “No. It’s weird.”

“What? It’s my name. The most common boy’s name in the book of baby names.”

Rodney’s tense and annoyed under him. This is just not working. John’s not accustomed to being the instigator. Usually the women just toss themselves at him and voila, instant sex. No chase involved. This is a different game.

Maybe more foreplay is in order. He always rushes the foreplay thing and forgets how useful it can be. Leaning down he captures Rodney in a warm, slow kiss, which seems to do the trick. Rodney stretches under him, all muscle and hidden strength. Fingers slide up into his hair and grip. Another hand cups the back of John’s neck, guiding the kiss into something deeper.

It’s quite possibly the hottest make-out session John’s ever had. Rodney does this thing with his tongue that has John about ready to embarrass himself and bring it all to an end much too quickly. So it’s a surprise when Rodney uses John’s limp state to his advantage and rolls them over, claiming top once more. Startled at the move, John blinks up at Rodney’s smug look, flustered and irritated with himself for letting his guard slip so easily.

“I’m definitely better on this side,” Rodney grins.

“Not last night,” John counters. Rodney’s bravado disappears and John instantly tries to suck the words back into his mouth. _Stupid, stupid, idiot, John!_

Instead of instant counter-attack, which is what John’s expecting, Rodney turns thoughtful above him. Something is being analyzed in his mind and he’s not moving away from John but also not encouraging further contact.

“We were drunk,” he reminds John in a defensive voice. “And I was angry.”

“I know,” John answers, not daring to even breathe at this point.

Blue eyes bore into him. “Why are we doing this?” Rodney whispers. “Because Carson’s dead?”

“No,” John immediately denies. He lifts his head and claims another kiss, which Rodney obligingly gives but then pulls away again.

Apparently Rodney has reached some breaking point, because he’s just suddenly curled next to John, breath catching on a strangled sadness. He presses closer, as though he might try and crawl inside John if possible.

“Hey,” John says, at a loss for what to say and how to react to this display of a broken Rodney. He tries not to freak out, but it’s disconcerting to see Rodney this way.

Sex seems to be out of the picture now. So he holds Rodney, and tries to sooth, stroking his hair and saying all those common phrases one says when someone is obviously distressed. “It’ll be fine,” “Don’t worry,” “I’m here.”

Until at last Rondey drifts into a fitful sleep, face smashed against John’s shoulder.

\---

Somewhere around 1:45 a.m. John wakes to sounds of activity in the main room. The television is on, a soft blue, flicker seeps under the door.

He climbs out from under heavy covers, pulls his jeans back on and pads out to find Rodney.

Light from the television is the only thing illuminating the room. Rodney is firmly ensconced on the couch, cocooned in a coverlet. There’s no way he doesn’t hear John clear his throat to announce his presence. Yet he continues to stare ahead at the screen. It’s a nature show, black bears frolic in a meadow of tall grass, the sound is muted.

John decides to risk taking a seat next to him, just close enough to touch. Together they watch baby bears pouncing on salmon in a sparkling river. When the bears go in search of berries and one of them gets stuck up a tree, John realizes there’s not going to be any talking happening. Which seems sort of okay. The bears find a lake of trout to splash in and John starts to doze off, head sagging against the back of the couch. Rodney breaks the silence. “Do you think he forgives me?”

“Yes,” John immediately answers groggily, forcing his eyes open. Rodney’s bathed in blue light, eyes fixed on him. Seconds stretch into minutes until John feels himself drooping once more. Rodney returns to the bears and John allows himself to lean a bit more against him as he gives into sleep.

In the morning Rodney’s gone. John lifts his head from the pillow and finds the coverlet draped over him. Rays of morning sun stretch through drawn curtains, making everything too bright and warm.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he has to pee so badly he might have remained on the couch for however long it took Rodney to return and bitch that they needed to get back to Cheyenne Mountain.

A damp towel is balled up in the corner of the bathroom and other obvious signs of Rodney’s recent presence lay around. John rationalizes that Rodney’s gone out in search of coffee.

He runs through the whole morning bathroom routine, ending up under a hot spray of water in the blissfully huge shower. For all the water surrounding Atlantis, they have yet to find giant Roman-like spas or saunas. The tiny cubicle showers in the personal quarters allow for a five minute wash and rinse before claustrophobia or cramps set in. Brief Earth-side trips always call for extended shower or bath time.

“Sheppard.”

John freezes mid-rinse of his hair, wiping water from his eyes, and sees Rodney’s unmistakable form in mosaic effect outside the thick glass of the shower-stall. “Yeah?” John answers, slightly suspicious. “Something wrong?”

Rodney snorts. “Well, we have to be back at Cheyenne in less than an hour, to catch the Daedalus. But otherwise, no.”

John shrugs nonchalantly then realizes Rodney can’t see it. “What are they going to do? Leave without us?”

Rodney doesn’t answer, but John can imagine he’s weighing the possibility of that happening. Hopefully, he isn’t thinking about how they actually will be leaving without that one particular member of their group.

A minute of silence passes so John continues with the rinsing of his hair. Cool air is the first thing that draws his attention from the hot water. Rodney’s just suddenly in front of him, no comment, no warning. He nudges John out from under the spray of water and takes his place.

“You already had a shower,” John says stupidly, absently sliding a hand over Rodney’s chest; doing everything within his power not to react to a naked, wet Rodney in such close proximity. A little voice in his head screams, _don’t scare him off again!_

“Not really in here for the shower.”

Oh. Heat, having nothing to do with the steamed room, settles into his belly. Just one step forward and they’re within one another’s personal space. He leans in slightly and Rodney smirks, like he knows how nervous he’s making John.

“You know, I’m standing here naked, wet and definitely turned on. That’s the green light, Sheppard.”

Most of his tension melts and John goes in for the kiss and the free reign of touching.

Rodney draws intricate designs with his tongue along the side of John’s throat; warm and talented mouth moving from John’s throat up along the line of his jaw. Deft fingers wrap around him in a slow stroking motion that has him struggling to focus.

He’s aching to pull Rodney closer and thrust against him, but Rodney appears to have some other path in mind here. Despite reassurance to the contrary, John still feels on thin ice from the conflict last night, so he lets Rodney go where he wants.

A thumb presses against a particularly sensitive area and John sucks in a sharp breath. “Sorry,” Rodney whispers against his throat.

“It’s okay,” John answers in a similar whisper, allowing himself to slide hands up Rodney’s chest, gripping broad shoulders. “Just, really not going to last long here.”

“Really?” Rodney looks surprised then a bit too self-satisfied.

“Well, you’re kind of a tease,” John says.

“Me? Really?” Rodney sounds amused and smug at once. His grip tightens and speeds up a fraction, wrestling a gasp out of John.

Heart racing, John manages to get a few brain cells together and slide fingers down Rodney’s torso only to have Rodney get ahead of him. He gets a fist around both of them, continuing his previous slow stroke.

The sight of them pressed together in Rodney’s sure grip is just the small nudge it takes to push John over the edge. His head drops to Rodney’s shoulder, holding tight to him, pulsing into that strong fisted stroke. Rodney says something, which John completely doesn’t register. He claims a few hungry kisses and John obligingly returns them, leaning heavily against him.

Rodney has a small hitch in his breath just before he comes. It’s completely endearing, that one small sound, and John immediately wants to hear it again.

They’re both breathless and inarticulate, foreheads pressed together. “You’ve done that before,” John accuses, after his heartbeat returns to a reasonable pattern.

“Do you really want to go into that now?” Rodney replies, one brow raised and skin flushed all over.

John really, really doesn’t. Because the surprising surge of jealousy is nauseating and not at all what he wants to feel at this moment. “No,” he answers.

“Great. Because we now have less than 45 minutes to get back to the SGC.” Rodney exits the shower. The stall door clicks shut behind him, leaving John alone again, with his thoughts racing. His head thumps lightly back against the tiled wall. He’s turning into a stupid, smitten puppy.

“Sheppard?”

“Yeah?”

“I actually haven’t done that before.” The bathroom door opens and closes. John stands under the spray of now tepid water and smiles to himself.

\---

“All present and accounted for, sir.” Lorne hands him a roster of new personnel boarded onto the Daedalus for the return trip. He looks refreshed and well rested and gives John a relaxed smile. They stand outside a giant airfield, under the intimidating hulk of the Daedalus, which was brought down to Earth for a few repairs and inspections before it’s next trip.

It’s a sunny day and the sky is so blue John can almost taste it.

“Thank you, Major.” John returns Lorne’s smile. “Sorry we left you to watch Ronon last night.”

“Not a problem. Zelenka and I took him to Hooters for dinner. He really enjoyed himself.” Lorne has an evil glint in his eye, suggesting there’s more to the story. John makes a note to get it out of him later.

“Just take it on up there,” Rodney directs a few Marines as they carry a huge crate of something between them. It sounds like sloshing water and John gives it a curious look. Rodney’s grinning as he comes to stand with Lorne and John. “Trout.”

John and Lorne stare at him, just waiting for the explanation.

“For that little lake area near the center spire? Trout. In memory of Carson.”

“Isn’t that interfering with the ecosystem of another galaxy or something?” John asks.

Rodney snorts. “Sheppard, they’re trout, not wraith.”

He’s got point and Lorne seems to agree. They turn back to watch the Marines set the sloshing crate down. “Can trout live in there for three weeks?” Lorne asks.

Rodney waves a dismissive hand. “Sure, they’re fish. They’re fine.”

Ronon and Zelenka approach from across the landing field. Ronon’s wearing the cheap shades John had yesterday. Zelenka has an amused but patient air to him as he nudges Ronon in the right direction.

“Don’t ask,” Ronon immediately growls. John tries to look sympathetic but fails miserably.

“Well, are we ready to go home?” John asks.

“Yes! As soon as possible,” Ronon grumbles, and is the first one heading for the ship. Zelenka and Lorne trail after him.

John takes one last look up at the skies, feeling again a bittersweet regret for the loss and the reason this whole miserable trip was necessary. Yet he can’t regret the results of it. Rodney has a small smile for him. “Coming?” he asks, nodding towards the ship.

“Of course,” John answers with a smile of his own.

/end


End file.
